black hair framed a long, stern face, the angles of which had been made
by years. But there was no sign of weakness. He had grown dry, not
flabby. His mouth was a thin, straight line, and his fighting chin jutted
out in profile.

He rose from his place to greet Vance Cornish. Indeed, the sheriff acted
the part of master of ceremonies at the hotel, having a sort of silent
understanding with the widow who owned the place. It was said that the
sheriff would marry the woman sooner or later, he so loved to talk at her
table. His talk doubled her business. Her table afforded him an audience;
so they needed one another.

"You don't remember me," said Vance.

"I got a tolerable poor memory for faces," admitted the sheriff.

"I'm Cornish, of the Cornish ranch."

The sheriff was duly impressed. The Cornish ranch was a show place. He
arranged a chair for Vance at his right, and presently the talk rose
above the murmur to which it had been depressed by the arrival of this
important stranger. The increasing noise made a background. It left Vance
alone with the sheriff.

"And how do you find your work, sheriff?" asked Vance; for he knew that
Uncle Joe Minter's great weakness was his love of talk. Everyone in the
mountains knew it, for that matter.

"Dull," complained Minter. "Men ain't what they used to be, or else the
law is a heap stronger."